Opperation: Golden Key - A BatmanJames Bond Adventure
by J.D. Finck
Summary: A technology capable of destroying all global communication has been stolen- and James Bond is on the hunt to retrieve it. His licence? Use any means necessary...but his path leads him to Gotham City, and square in the sights of the legendary Batman. If the two men survive one another, can they then survive the combined threat of both the League of Shadows and Quantum?
1. Chapter 1

He was dreaming. He knew that he was dreaming, because Vesper was there. It was the good dream, the one where she was standing at the prow of the boat, her back to him, her body shimmering in the Mediterranean sun. Christ, she looked good. So good that just watching her was a pleasure. She turned and saw him, and she smiled. Her smile warmed him, touching a place in his heart that no other woman ever had.

"Come here, James," she said, holding out her hand. He smiled, and walked to her. In a moment, he would take her into his arms again. It was four years ago. It was a lifetime ago. It was when Vesper was still alive, and life was good…

Then something gently touched his face, and the dream was over.

The gun was in his hand before he even awoke. He made the assessment in the flash of a single second—someone standing over him, a woman, holding something in her hand.

He sprung up and instantly had the woman by the throat, and his Walther PPK pressed firmly against her forehead. The room was dark, but there was just enough light spilling out from the opened bathroom door for him to see the look of terror in her pleading eyes. That was what finally cleared the sleep away.

"J…James! I, I was only trying to wake you. Your phone," the frightened woman stammered, waving his mobile phone with her left hand. "It's your office. They…they insisted that I wake you."

James quickly slipped the gun back under his pillow. "I'm sorry, darling," he said, trying to remember the woman's name. Hilldy? Something like that. "Are you all right?"

"Yes…I think so."

"I have to take this call, I'm sorry."

James took the mobile from the woman (Hanna?), and got up, not bothering to find his robe. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen everything up close just a few hours ago. James walked into his bathroom, locking the door. He turned the tap on, noise to drown out the conversation.

"Bond here."

"James. This is a priority activation ca…"

"I'm on leave, Moneypenny. Call someone else."

"I'm sorry, James. This comes straight from the top. You're to report to M's office as soon as possible."

"Damn. You know, Moneypenny, even we double-0's need to get a little relaxation from time to time."

"Is _that_ what you were getting, James? Relaxation? What was the young woman's name, anyway?"  
"Hailey. I think. Definitely an 'H'"

"Well, tell Hailey goodbye. M expects you here within the hour."

Bond flicked the mobile off. He scanned his reflection in the mirror; scars, many faded, some not; a shadow of stubble on his chin that would have to wait. The bleary eyes from last nights wine could also wait…but the smell of last nights sex could not. He made it quick, jumping in and out of the shower. He kept the water icy cold, stinging the drowse from his senses. Seconds later, he was rooting through his closet for clothes. As he did, last nights charming companion came into the room, carrying a tray of coffee and a plate of fresh fruit.

"Oh. Are you leaving?"

"Sorry, darling." _What the hell was her name? Harriet? Holly?_ "Something has just come up, I've got to go."

The pretty brunette set the tray down, looking particularly fetching holding that plate of fruit. An image came to Bond's mind; Eve, forbidden fruit in hand, temping sin.

"Surely you can make time for a bite?" the woman asked. She was wearing one of his shirts, and nothing else. It was just short enough to get his attention…

_Keep your mind on business, Bond._

"I'm afraid not. Trouble at the home office."

"But James, you told me that you were an art dealer. What kind of business could you possibly have this early on a Sunday morning?"

Bond looped the tie around the collar of his shirt. "Big client. The kind that can't be put off. I'll likely be gone all day, but you're welcome to stay as long as you want."

Slipping into his Armani, Bond turned around to find the woman standing in front of him, holding his Walther in the palm of her hand. Her mouth was agape.

"You…you have a gun," she murmured. "Why do you have a gun, James?"

Bond walked over to her, making the assessment in the flash of single second; hour-glass figure, naked but for his shirt (which was half-way unbuttoned), gun in hand…

_Keep you bloody mind on business, Bond! _

Gently, he took the weapon from her, and kissed her. "The art world can be murder. It pays to careful." He slipped the gun into the holster underneath his jacket and headed to the door.

"James," the woman called out, "will I see you again?" He turned and lied to her.

"Of course you will…" He spied the pile of clothing at the foot of the bed; bra and panties, a skirt…an attractive little hat. Hat!

James smiled his best smile. "I'll call you as soon as I get this business wrapped up…Hattie."

Fifty-nine minutes later, Bond was walking into the headquarters of MI-6, Great Britain's intelligence and espionage agency. There were the initial access points to negotiate, then came the checkpoint that required bio-scans. As the guard admitted him through the doors of the _true_ MI-6, he saw Moneypenny waiting. She was frowning.

"You took your time about it. She's in a mood, and she's waiting for you," the dark-skinned beauty said, pointing to the imposing oaken doors. James smiled and plopped down on Moneypenny's desk.

"Is this how you say hello? No 'nice to see you, James', no 'how was your holiday?'. By the way, you're looking particularly lovely this morning, Moneypenny."

The woman fumed. She was about to rip into him when the intercom sounded.

"Miss Moneypenny, send Commander Bond in. Immediately."

Bond sighed, and went into the office.

"Ma'am," he said, nodding. M wasted no time with pleasantries.

"Take a seat, Commander."

Bond complied, saying nothing. He knew when to talk, and when to stay silent. M appreciated that about him, just as he appreciated her for her directness. There was no misunderstanding where you stood when you worked for M. She was a woman of many years service in what was still predominantly a man's field. She had risen to become head of one of the worlds largest spy organizations, and she attained that position by being tougher, smarter, and more determined than those around her. Many in the trade dreaded working under the woman. She demanded perfection. In the pursuit of her duty, she was relentless. Bond admired those qualities in her, for they were his qualities, as well. M did not suffer fools lightly, nor did she accept failure as an option. That suited Bond fine.

"We have a situation," M said, activating the computer screen on the far wall. A technical schematic popped up, reams of data scrolling by, none of which made a lick of sense to Bond. "Are you familiar with the term 'The Golden Key'?"

"Yes. It's the Holy Grail of computer programming; the perfect, self-correcting, all-purpose algorithm. It would penetrate any system, unlock any code, override any security. In theory, anyone with the Golden Key could control or crash the entire global communication grid, shut down the internet, wipeout financial transactions…"

"Override nuclear launch code," M interjected.

"Yes," Bond said. "That's the theory."

"It stopped being theory nine months ago."

"Someone actually did it?"

"We did it. But a hostile player has gotten their hands on our technology. You are going to get it back for us, Commander. If you cannot retrieve our stolen tech, you are to destroy it. Do you understand your mission?"

"Of course. How did they acquire it?"

M sat behind her desk and touched the intercom button.

"Is Commander Bonds requisition ready?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. We will be down shortly," she said. M turned her attention back to Bond. "Technically, they did not acquire it. The working algorithm is stored here, at MI-6. It exists only on one of our supercomputers. The computer is strictly off-line, kept deep below ground in our nuclear bunker. It is utterly secure."

"Then what is the emergency?"

"They've acquired the next best thing to the algorithm itself; they have the man who created it."

M brought up a new file on the computer screen. Bond's eyes widened at the sight. Staring back at him from that screen was the face of a man he knew well.

"Q…"

"Yes, the head of our Quartermaster Branch."

"Where's he being held? Who has him?"

"I will get to that. First, I need to be perfectly clear on the nature of your mission. Q succeeded in creating the ultimate programming tool. No doubt, his captors are eager for him to recreate it, and that is something we cannot allow. Our missing tech, Commander Bond, is _Q_."

M paused and looked Bond squarely in the eye. "If that technology cannot be retrieved…then it must be destroyed. So I ask you again; do you understand your mission?"

Bond's gaze rested on the screen for several long seconds. His expression was stone. Only his slate-grey eyes betrayed any turmoil, but soon, he mastered even that. Commander James Bond, code-name: 007, the most capable and dangerous agent in Her Majesties Secret Service turned his icy gaze towards M, and answered her.

"Yes."

"Good. Let's head downstairs. I'll brief you as we go."

M gave a quick sketch of the situation to Bond as they walked. He listened, and asked no questions. As they stepped into the elevator, M quieted for a moment.

"Your mission…" She hesitated, and looked at Bond. "You may be forced to take the second option. It won't be easy."

"No mission is easy. I've had to make tough calls before."

"This is different. You were friends."

"We _are_ friends," Bond said. "Until I find otherwise, I operate under the assumption that he's still alive."

"Will that friendship make you hesitate?"

Bond leveled a hard stare at M. "I know my duty."

"That's not an answer."

"You're wrong. It's the only answer. If you don't trust me, why am I here?"

"Because you are the best."

Bond faced forward. "Then trust me to do my job."

The elevator doors opened, and they headed out into the lower levels of the MI-6 complex, which housed the Weapons Armory, Research and Development, and the Department of Technology. Collectively, it was Q Branch, home to a staggering array of cutting-edge weapons and tools of spycraft. By long tradition, the head of this department, whose official title was Chief Quartermaster, was called, simply and plainly, 'Q'. It had been that way sixty years ago, it was that way today. The current Q was a young man—shockingly young for such a critical position; but there was no doubt he was the man for the job. He was brilliant, and infuriatingly aware of it. He was also a good man, someone Bond not only trusted, but someone he liked. In this business, it did not pay to form personal attachments. Bond knew Q's real name, but he put that name out of his head.

Bond could feel all eyes on him as he and M entered the complex. The men and women who made up the Quartermaster Branch knew why he was here. They may not have been field agents, but they were not fools; they understood the stakes. They said nothing about it, and did their best to maintain a professional attitude. Admirable, Bond thought. But he could still feel their eyes on him.

The absence of Q haunted the space where he would normally be standing, and no one wanted to disturb that empty spot. Bond stood there for a moment, waiting for someone to speak up. No one did, so he took the lead.

"Who's in charge here?"

A plump but pretty woman edged forward. Bond did not know her. Late thirties, scant makeup, hair pulled back, thick glasses. Textbook geek, or was she trying to look the part? Probably both.

"I…I am. I'm Deputy Quartermaster," the woman answered, softy. Bond shook his head.

"Wrong. You _are_ the Quartermaster. What's your name?"

"Miss Jennings."

"Wrong. Look, I have a job to do, and I have precious little time to waste. I'll ask you again. What's your name?"

The woman adjusted her glasses. "My name is Q."

"Good. Make sure that everyone on your team knows it." Bond cast his glance around the room, where technicians were shifting uncomfortably. "If my mission is to succeed, if I'm to bring him back alive, then I need everyone here to be at their best. Put your feelings aside, and concentrate on your jobs. Understood?"

The group murmured its assent.

"Good. Because Q is counting on you. Isn't that right, Q?" he said, laying his hand on the woman's shoulder. She straightened her shoulders and nodded at her people, who _were_ her people now.

"Quite right," M said, smiling for the briefest moment at Bond. She turned to the woman. "Is the requisition ready?"

"Yes," Q answered. "We've had it loaded aboard the jet. I'll just run down the particulars…"

"There's no time for that," M interrupted. "Just email the specks to Commander Bond, he can read-up during his flight. I want you and your people ready to provide all necessary support the moment he touches down."

"Yes ma'am," Q answered. She turned to Bond "Good luck, double-0-seven."

With that, Bond and M headed out to the underground tramline that connected MI-6 to the outer world of London, a secret transportation system reserved for critical situations. This was one of them. Jumping on the waiting tram, Bond was surprised to see that M had followed him aboard.

"Fancy a little taste of field work, do you, M?"

M glared. "I made my grade in the field when you were still in short-pants, Commander," she shot back. "I'm only going as far as Heathrow. I wanted to cover the final details with you."

"Good, you still haven't told me who it is we're dealing with."

M nodded, and handed Bond a file. It made him smile; he was perfectly expert at any and all forms of electronic communication—as all agents, of course, had to be—but like M, he had a certain fondness for the old ways. Paper reports pleased him.

"The details are enclosed," she said. "Q's plane crashed into Lake Ontario, the American side. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to make it look like an accident. We recovered a badly burned body. It wasn't him. Cosmetic alteration, right down to duplicated fingerprints and dental work. But it wasn't him."

"Sophisticated. Not to mention expensive," Bond said.

"Quite. This was a well-planed operation. Indications point to CIA."

"You don't sound convinced."

"This is a little cold-blooded for our friends across the pond. There were two hundred people aboard that flight, mostly US citizens."

"Who, then? Quantum?"

"Possibly. But there is another organization in the mix, one we know even less about than we do Quantum. Very shadowy group, ties to Asia and the Middle East."

"Islamic?"

"No. More like eco-terrorist. The two factions may be working together. The details are in your packet."

"I take it this mission is dark?" Bond asked.

"It is. You are operating without knowledge or sanction of the United States government. If you are captured, we will disavow all knowledge of your actions. Understood?"

Bond quietly laughed. "Yes."

"You've worked with an American agent a time or two in the past, correct?"

Bond nodded. Felix.

"Not this time. CIA involvement is still a possibility. There isn't a nation or a terrorist group on the planet that wouldn't want to get their hands on the Golden Key. So trust no one."

"I never do. It's safer that way."

The Tram emerged into a private parking garage just off the main concourse of Heathrow international airport. Outside the garage, a private jet was waiting, fueled up for a transatlantic flight. Bond was nearly at the ramp when M called out.

"One last thing, Bond."

She walked over, producing a second file. "There is a wildcard in this operation. We have reason to believe that Q is being held in Gotham City, so that is your destination. It may bring your mission into contact with this man."

Bond took the file and opened it. Clipped to a slim stack of printouts were three photographs. He looked them over, an incredulous look on his face.

"I've heard of him. I though he was an urban myth."

"He's no myth," M replied. "These reports are from a Gotham police taskforce. Read them, and familiarize yourself with the man. He's…quite remarkable. These are the only known photos of him."

Bond eyed the pictures, wryly. "Has a flair for the dramatic," he said, smirking a little.

"Don't let that fool you. It would be easy to write him off as a deranged thrill seeker. Don't. He is very much for real, and he is very dangerous. He has been waging a one-man war on crime in his city. If he gets wind of this operation, he will doubtless involve himself."

Bond looked the photos over for a second time. That outfit was like something out of a Kabuki nightmare, outlandish and almost mesmerizing. It made the man look like nothing so less than a demon in black. Easy to see why the criminals feared him. So, this was the legendary Batman? Bond smiled, and put the photos back in the file.

"And if he gets in my way?"

"Then remove him," M said.

With that, M turned and headed back to the tram. Bond tucked the files under his arm and boarded the jet. He was soon in his seat, and the jet in the air. The flight was a charter. His cover was that of the head of a firm that designed custom-made luxury cars. It explained the impressive automobile stored in the hold, along with the crates of material marked 'Electronics, Handle with Care'.

Bond was flipping through the files M had given him when the flight attendant came walking towards him. He made the assessment in the flash of a second: twenty-something, no ring, pretty face, dazzling smile.

"Can I get you anything, Mr. Bond?"

Bond scanned her name badge, coming away with a smile of his own.

"Yes, please. You could start with bringing me a plate of fresh fruit, Heather. I'm feeling sinfully hungry."


	2. Chapter 2

He was dreaming. He knew that he was dreaming because his mother was alive. She was standing at the oven, a place she seldom had time for, but enjoyed being at, nonetheless. It gave her pleasure to take time out of her busy schedule to do the simple things like cook for her family. Bruce liked remembering her this way, happy, at home. Near to him. Somehow, the smell of his mothers cooking was always more appealing than the smell of any other food. It was the smell of love. His mother set down the oven mitts and took off the apron, and when she saw him looking at her, she smiled. Her smile warmed him like the sun itself.

"Hello, my darling boy," she said. "Are you good and hungry?"

"Yes," he heard himself answer, both child and man. You can be that, in dreams.

"Good. Now, run along and take your bath. We're eating as soon as your father gets home, then we're off to see the show. Won't that be fun?"

Icy dread clutched his heart.

"No, mother, we can't go. Please say we won't."

She looked at him, smiling. "Oh don't be silly. Run along now, let mommy finish."

"But we can't go!" he insisted. "Something bad will happen! Please!"

"What's all this ruckus?" he heard his father ask from behind.

His mother gently mocked. "Bruce is just trying to get out of going to the theater tonight, that's all."

Panic. How could he make them understand? Desperation flooded his heart and mind as he tried to find the words that would convince them. His father gently ruffled his hair, and Bruce turned to look.

"I'm sorry, son. We have no choice."

His father was covered in blood. "It's almost time," he said, a look of sad resignation on his blood-splattered face.

"Your father's right, Bruce," his mother said. Trembling, he turned to look. Her life was running out from the hole in her chest, crimson. She pointed at something behind him. "He's waiting on us, Bruce."

Bruce turned and looked at the thing filling the doorway. Filling his life. Enormous and winged, black as an unlit cave. Demon-spiked ears. Waiting in hideous impatience to be born, hissing out its thirst for vengeance…calling him…calling him…

Bruce sat upright, making sweat trickle cold down his back. The dream faded instantly. Its imprint was eternal. Someone was calling him.

"Master Bruce."

He looked to see a shadow standing at the doorway. Alfred.

"I'm sorry, sir. You said to wake you if he called."

Bruce turned and looked through the sheer curtains of the north windows, the ones that faced towards the city. Floating high in the grey-black clouds of pre-dawn, the signal beaconed; a yellow halo of light, with black wings that called to him.

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He rose, looking about the room.

"Your robe is on the armoire," Alfred said, and sure enough, it was there. "I'll prepare you a light breakfast," he added.

Bruce headed to the shower. Last nights work had left him ripe. "I don't have time to eat."

"You will bloody well make time. You haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

Bruce halted. His stomach _was_ growling. He looked over at Alfred.

"Coffee and toast. Get it to the cave before I leave, and I'll eat."

Within minutes, Bruce was showered. He entered his secret elevator, which had but a single destination. There was a network of caves under the foundations of Wayne Manor, carved out thousands of years ago during the last ice age. Remnants of that frigid time seemed never to have left. Bruce liked it that way. The cold focused his attention. He walked off the platform of the lift, where Alfred promptly intercepted him with a tray of food.

"First, you eat," Alfred insisted. "Once you get that costume on, you'll never take a bite. So eat."

The tray had coffee and toast, along with a soft-boiled egg, and a bowl of fruit and yogurt. "All right," Bruce said, smiling at the grey haired old man with the disapproving scowl. "I'll eat."

The food was good, and Bruce had to admit; he needed the calories. He depended on Alfred for many things, but chiefly, he needed Alfred to keep him fed and to insist that he get some sleep now and then. Left to his own devices, Bruce tended to push himself to the brink of endurance and beyond. Above even that, however, Bruce depended on Alfred Pennyworth to keep him tethered to humanity. Alfred, by his very presence, reminded Bruce that mere vengeance would be a sin against the memory of his parents.

He finished the meal quickly ("It is customary to chew ones food," Alfred reminded him). Bruce wiped his mouth and glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since awaking; he should have been on the road five minutes ago. He moved to the cove where his uniform waited, along with row upon row of various tools and weapons, a choice for every conceivable need. With practiced precision, he quickly suited up. Bruce Wayne was stepping aside, enacting a promise he had made a lifetime ago as a heartbroken child. Amidst the trauma and pain of losing his parents, he made a vow. He would become something more than just a creature of vengeance…but a creature he was; a spirit of the night, a phantom who haunted the streets of Gotham City in an endless quest for vengeance tempered by justice. As he pulled the black cowl over his face, Bruce Wayne disappeared. In his place stood The Batman.

With a swirl of his immense black cape, Batman walked out of the cove, moving with fluid speed towards the ramp. His vehicle waited, gleaming like a black diamond. The car responded to him almost like a living thing, the hatch swinging open as the engine thrummed to life. Far down the runway, a cunningly concealed exit to the outside world began to open.

"Don't forget," Alfred called out, "Bruce Wayne is hosting the annual Wayne Foundations charity auction tonight. Eight o'clock, the Waldorf."

Batman looked up at Alfred as the hatch was swinging closed.

"Eight o'clock. He'll be there," the Dark Knight said. The car thundered out into the pre-dawn darkness.

Twenty-five stories above the streets of Gotham, a man stood waiting of the roof of Police Headquarters. It was a familiar holding pattern. Thirty-plus years as a cop give a man plenty of practice in patience, so it wasn't the wait getting to him; it was the cold. _Damn, it's bitter,_ Jim Gordon thought, stamping his feet for warmth. March was holding on to winter like it had a grudge against spring. Gordon rubbed his bleary eyes, casting a glance at his watch. That was when the voice called out, catching him, as it always did, unawares.

"It's quarter to six. Sorry to have kept you waiting."

Gordon took a breath. Sonofabitch caught him like that every damned time. "Sorry to call you again so soon," he said, turning around. "You couldn't have had much sleep since I saw you last."

Batman was crouched on the ledge nearest the signal, which was still blazing into the night. He reached out a black-gloved hand, shutting the thing off. "I'd appreciate if you not let it get out that I sleep," he said.

Gordon wasn't sure if the man was joking or not. Then he remembered that the man never joked. He lit his pipe, as much for warmth as anything. "You said you wanted to know as soon as I had anything on that stolen hardware…" Gordon held out a copy of a police report.

Batman leapt to the roof, the motion a whisper. He walked to Gordon, taking the paper. The first blush of dawn was beginning to appear, but the sky was still dark.

"We can use my office," Gordon offered.

"I'm fine," Batman replied, reading the paper. The report confirmed his initial suspicion; the equipment came from the Kurenai Corporation. Kurenai was a subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises. Gordon likely wouldn't have that particular bit of information so early in the investigation. He would undoubtedly find it curious that Batman did. Jim Gordon did not rise to become police Commissioner of Gotham City by means of political maneuvering; he earned it by sheer competence. Gordon was as sharp a detective as Batman knew.

"Find anything useful?"

"Maybe," Batman replied. "When I have something solid, I'll share it with you. Something about this bust troubles me. The men I took down at that warehouse, they wern't your average fence operation."

"Out of towners, that's for certain," Gordon said.

"It's more than that. Their weapons and organization were a cut above what you'd expect from the mob. They had the earmarks of mercenaries. One of them had a tattoo, a winged dagger on a red and blue field. It's the mark of the CFST. French Special Forces."

Gordon rubbed his chin. "Hmm. That's worth looking into. They lawyered up as soon as we slapped the cuffs on them, so it's going to take awhile to get to the bottom of it."

"You'll let me know when you have more?"

"Certainly," Gordon said, taking a draw on his pipe. "You can hang on to the report if it…"

Gordon turned around. Batman was gone. Sonofabitch. He caught him with that every damned time.

From inside the Batmobile, Batman went to place a call. He took a moment to concentrate, easing back the menacing rasp from his voice, until the sound of it was Bruce Wayne again. He placed the call, and on the third ring, a familiar voice answered.

"Mr. Wayne," answered a sleep-fogged voice. It was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Lucius Fox. "How nice of you to call. At six am. On a Saturday morning."

"Oh, did I wake you?"

"Not at all. I'm always here for you. I'll sleep when I retire."

"Not anytime soon, I hope. I need you to check into something for me. I need to know if Kurenai has been missing any merchandise recently. Some very high-tech satellite up-link arrays, specifically."

"Not the type of items easily misplaced," Lucius said. "I haven't heard of any recent theft or cargo loss. Shall I make this an official inquiry, Mr. Wayne, or would you prefer…discretion?"

Batman smiled. Lucius was one of his most trusted confidants, second only to Alfred. He and Lucius had an unspoken agreement: Lucius pretended that he didn't know his secret identity, and Bruce played along. They had developed a 'short-hand' system of communication for conversations such as this one.

"Let's be discreet. If there is something amiss at Kurenai, I don't want to tip our hand. Let me know what you find."

"Certainly. I'll try to have something for you by the auction tonight. Speaking of which, may make a suggestion?"

"Of course."

"Go with the black tux tonight, Mr. Wayne. It really is your color."


End file.
